Bakerlandia!
by Winter Winks 221
Summary: Sherlock endeavors to cheer John up after his flatmate is condemned to bed rest for breaking a leg on a case.


A/N: Just a weird little story I came up with on the bus o_o it's not to be taken seriously, and I hope you enjoy it! Sherlock may be a little OOC, so I apologise for that in advance, but I did my best. Rated T for John swearing, and for minor mentions of blood and injuries...

Disclaimer: I own not John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, for they belong to the creators of Sherlock and the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle...

CRACK!

"John, tell me where your bag is." I say to my idiotic flatmate -only to hear mumbled curses, as he attempts to get up and look at my hand- which has a large incision on the palm and it is bleeding profusely.

I give a deathly glare to the broken test tube on my work surface, before I turn back to John.

"John, I am in need of your medical assistance." I say bluntly.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, what have you done now?" He asks me exasperatingly. Why is he exasperated? It's not often I sustain injuries on experiments- it's usually cases that have a far higher probability for unintended injury, and always from a third party. Dull.

"A test tube snapped in my hand during my experiment." I scowl; it is surprisingly stinging, considering I have been on the verge of Death itself multiple times.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock you idiot!" John snaps.

"What? We both know I'm not the idiot," I argue, glaring at him. "Besides, you're a doctor- you know these things can go wrong!"

"Yeah- I'm a doctor with a bloody broken leg! I would normally be more than happy to help you- but seeing as I'm incapacitated myself, mate"-

"Tea, John?" I interrupt, realising I had crossed the line. John scoffs, but accepts anyway.

"Look, bring my bag over while you're up, will you?" John asks quietly. "I'll...I'll get that wound cleaned for you."

I manage a quicksilver smile at him, and I disappear into the kitchen to make my peace offering.

...

On my return, I deftly grab John's bag, and he cleans and bandages my wound- after checking for glass, for despite how often I say John is an idiot, he is far less of an idiot than most people I know.

"Right, you're all done. Try not to apply too much strain on it." He eyes my violin, and my eyes widen in horror at his implication.

"You mean..."

"Yeah, you know that I mean that your violin's not going to get played." He tells me. "And stay away from the experiments." He adds.

I sigh, looking up at the yellow smiling face on the wall, considering nicking John's gun (I was too busy to get mine from the kitchen.) when he adds "Don't even think about it, Sherlock."

I let my hands snake into my dressing gown pockets, glowering at John for stealing the sofa- where I lie and think.

As a result of my now injured hand, and tendency to find things John considers entertainment dull, the boredom does not take long to creep in- and it's creeping up over like a black fog.

Well, a fog, anyhow. Why would a colour of fog affect my mood?

I glance over at John, still glaring at the bulky cast on his leg.

"John..."

He gives me a look- or more of a glower.

"...I'm bored."

"For Christ's sake, Sher, can't you find something to do that doesn't require injuring yourself or pissing me off?" He asks.

Hm, still frustrated at his broken leg- both annoying and dull, but considering this is the only place I feel secure to lie around and think, I find I am out of options. My room is inhabitable at the moment, due to an experiment- and John swore he would stab my throat with my violin bow if I entered his room without his permission- again.

Mrs. Hudson would just fuss over me and do her 'mother henning' if I go anywhere near her flat.

Lestrade is not in London, either- and I have no interest to see Anderson or Donovan at the Yard. Molly's sick with the flu, and I will never initiate a visit with Mycroft out of so called _fraternal sentiment,_ or anything elsefor that matter.

My violin is out of the question, due to my hand- it is still throbbing, and John will most likely carry out some threat or other if I dare conduct some experiment.

Besides, I loathe admitting it, but John is looking miserable. Considering he has not been out on a case since the one he broke his leg on three weeks ago, and he has had to take time off work, he's very much cooped up in the flat with limited freedom.

I mull over how to solve all the problems- but no obvious solutions come forth.

That is, until I spy an article in the paper about the Queen- boring, boring- but I may have some way to cheer John up.

That will cost me, however...

...

I sit down beside John, who gives me a strange look. Not that I can blame him- but I find it irritating. "John, stop glaring at me." I tell him.

"What do you want?" He asks me warily, seeing me sit cross legged on the floor.

"I'm sitting, John,"

"Yes, but what are you up to? You don't voluntarily do things like this...unless you have a hidden motive." His eyes narrow. "If you're conducting another bloody experiment on me, stop it now."

I ignore him. "John, I would...I...Iwouldliketotellyouastory."

"Pardon, Sherlock? All I heard was you mumbling."

I sigh impatiently. "I would like to...tell you...a story, John," I grit out at last.

Why does John look so scared? I don't see why he should be scared. Do you?

"What about, Sherlock?" He asks me. I disregard his question, deciding it wasn't my breath to answer.

"


End file.
